


Miss Me When I'm Gone

by Mouse9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Faked Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 22:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse9/pseuds/Mouse9
Summary: There are Danger Nights and then there are nights that big brother doesn't even know about.  Sometimes the most unlikely person can shine a light through dark moments.  (Set before TRF)





	Miss Me When I'm Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katybaggins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katybaggins/gifts).



_H_ _e was a fraud._  

_A fake._  

_A sad useless creature, not worthy of anyone._  

_Stupid, childish, irresponsible._  

He walked the streets, hands shoved into the pockets of his greatcoat, head bent against the wind of the chilly London night.   

He loved London, loved just being in the heart of this city but on nights like tonight, his city mocked him. 

He wasn't lonely, would never admit to that out loud, but deep down in places he never mentioned, there was a space he didn’t know how to fill.  A sore, aching black space that had been ripped out of him. He didn’t know why or how it had gotten there.  But, that black space wouldn’t…couldn’t…it didn’t seem to be able to be filled.  Normally, he could ignore the ache, push the knowledge of that black void far back into the recesses of his mind palace, forget about it.   

But on nights like tonight, it exploded to the surface, demanding to be noticed.  Screaming its name to the Heavens 

_Redbeard._  

_The only being that ever loved you…truly loved you no matter what._  

_Your parents tolerate you, your brother finds you an annoyance._  

_You are a hindrance. An embarrassment._  

_You’re a freak.  Useless for anything except what people can get from you and then they drop you until the next time you're of use._  

_Even John merely puts up with you as a means to an end.  He saved you because he's an addict and only you can provide his fix. He doesn't really like you, you're just his dealer._  

John… 

His flat mate wasn’t speaking to him.  Being used as a human bomb while Sherlock merely stood there and watched, unable to do even the simplest thing of shooting John to take out the leverage when asked, followed by Sherlock's ungracious and unmannerly description of Jeanette at the Christmas party, John was not feeling at all charitable towards him. Not that he blamed him at all.  He had, as John had rightly said, been Not Good in both of these situations.  It was his fault.  It was always his fault. 

_Of course, it's your fault, you stupid man,_  the voice said.   _How could you ever think it wasn't?_  

 John had been worried after Adler’s death:  Mycroft had called a Danger Night and everyone was suitably worried for a couple of days but that had ended rather quickly and everything was back to the norm.   

Mycroft had been right, damn him, but after a day or two the cravings had subsided…well, for the harder stuff.  He had bought a pack of cigarettes while walking and smoked half of them on the way home.   

Tonight…tonight however, the demon had come out in full force.  Not the demons that urged him to find a dealer and buy a gram of heroin, rather the one that told him over and over that he was worthless, unloved, only useful for short amounts of time and then discarded into the pile until they needed him again.  Nobody gave two shites about him, what he did with his life nor what he was doing. 

_Do everyone a favour and just off yourself.  No one would give a toss if your brains were splattered across the Thames._ The voice crooned.   _Mummy and Dad would continue their lives as usual, Mycroft would be thankful he didn’t have to clean up any more messes of yours, John wouldn’t have to deal with anymore attempts on his life. Nobody cares…_  

He looked up, the wind whipping harder around his face, stinging his eyes.  He stood in front of St Bart’s.  The hospital he spent a portion of his life, working in the lab when he was bored and couldn’t go home, the hospital where he solved crimes, studied bodies for clues, snagged parts for experimentation.  

_Another person who would love to not have to deal with your demanding tantrums._  Would this torment never cease?   _Molly would breathe a sigh of relief if you just stopped bursting into the lab demanding bodies and parts for experiments. She's your doll Sherl, a little marionette for you to play with when you want. Make her dance, make her sing.  How many times are you going to hurt her until she snaps?_  

He was in the lift, heading up to the top of the hospital before he realized what he was doing.  But logically, it made sense.  The roof, out of doors, easier to clean up should he go through with any one of the many scenarios running in an organized file in another portion of his brain.  Wouldn't be any trouble for Mycroft to call in a cleaning crew to quickly take care of his remains.  _Once again, cleaning up your messes._  It'd be an open and shut case, Anderson might as well throw a party. 

Irene was dead because of him.  She’d told him she would die because of his involvement. 

John couldn’t keep a relationship because he kept deducing his dates. They were ridiculous women, but John seemed to favour ridiculous women.  

_Jealous?_  the voice sneered. 

He let out a snort, startling him for a moment in the silence of the lift.  The voice inside his head, the same one that had been there his entire lift.  So familiar, like an itch one can't ever quite reach to scratch, but unknown still.  It was part of the reason the voice had always been able to quickly cut him down.  Because deep down, he knew the voice was important, he just couldn't figure out why. 

_Impotent._ the voice teased.  _You've always been the idiot. People don't like you, they like to be lied to.  Like that foolish Sergeant.  The one who hates you._  

Donovan.  Donovan hated him, which, in itself he actually couldn’t give a toss about. But ironically, she always seemed to know exactly where to hit him for the most damage. 

_Freak._  

_Freak._ The voice sang _._  

Maybe they were right.  Maybe he was a freak.  He’d destroyed Molly at the party.  Pushing and pushing, deducing her sharply and without mercy until he’d seen the gift he carelessly suggested was for the man she liked.  And it was.  He was just so completely wrong on the man she liked.   

_You always say such horrible things.  Always, always…_  

The lift doors opened at the top floor and he strode out and around the corner to the fire exit that led to the roof, his mind full of images and voices recounting all of his sins. 

The cold slapped at his face as he stepped out onto the roof.  Before him, London was glittering in the moonlight. 

His town.  His lifeblood.  His mistress. 

She fed him, nurtured him, gave him meaning.  

But even she had forsaken him these cold nights. 

The voice was almost gleeful now, and even though a small part of him kept screaming to ignore her, to go home to Baker Street and sleep, that in the daylight things would seem brighter.  The demon won out and pushed the lone voice away like a branch in a gale force storm.  And he was too weak to do anything but be swept along with it.  

Because, he was. 

Weak.  

A burden. 

A hindrance. 

It would be better if he just ended it all. 

_Nobody would cry._ The voice crooned.   _Nobody would miss you._  

_I would._   A small voice, a new voice, whispered at the far back of his mind, desperate to be heard.   _I would miss you.  I would cry if you were gone._  

He blinked, frowning as he stared out at the lights of the city.   He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He let his lungs fill before blowing it out, feeling the nicotine enter his system to help calm him…just a bit.   

Undeterred, the new voice tried again, pushing against the cacophony of barbs the demon still whispered at him.   

_I would mourn your death.  Please don’t.  Call someone._  

He pulled his mobile from his pocket and looked at the black screen.  He took another drag of his cigarette as he keyed in his code with his thumb.  

Chance didn’t exist.  Luck was made by idiots who didn’t understand how cause and effect worked.  But… 

_One call.  What can it hurt?_  

That lone voice was persistent.  Determined. Familiar.  He didn't want to dwell on just how familiar. 

_You don’t believe in chance and that’s fine._  The voice insisted.  _One call.  Random.  To anyone._  

He blew out smoke and lifted his face to the sky, closing his eyes against the voice.  The other had quieted, but he could still hear her in the back…waiting… 

“Fine.  One call.”  He answered the voice aloud.  “If they answer then…we’ll see.  It’s two thirty in the morning, no one will answer, so this entire exercise is futile.” 

_Humour me.  One call._  

He opened his contact list. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, swiped his thumb over the scroll button on the list and then pressed his thumb in a random spot.  The line on the other end rang and he stepped onto the ledge as he counted the rings. 

The line rang five times and then… 

“Sherlock?" 

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas had been a disaster and Molly had spent days after sitting on the couch, eating ice cream by the pint and watching ridiculous romantic comedies.  Finally, in a fit of friendly tough love, Molly’s friend Meena managed to break into her flat, shove her in the shower, get her dressed and after a stern talking to, drug her pathetic arse out for a night with the girls. 

Which, after five glasses of wine over a six-hour period, Molly finally admitted she needed.  They closed out the bar and after a hug to Meena and a promise that she would be fine, the group of women split up, all heading to their respective homes.  Molly tugged the coat further around her neck and glanced around the almost empty street looking for a taxi.   

She’d just raised her hand to flag one down when her mobile rang.   Rolling her eyes, she stepped back onto the sidewalk and pulled it from her pocket.  If this was the new registrar at work calling her at two thirty in the morning with some stupid question… 

The screen said Sherlock and she frowned.  She’d just spent six hours surrounded by women trying to forget him, did she really want him back on the forefront of her mind so quickly.   Her fingers, fortified by liquid courage and instinct, swiped the accept button.   

It seemed her subconscious was a masochist.   

“Sherlock?”  she answered. 

There was no answer at first then she heard quiet mumbling on the other line.   

“Sherlock?”  she repeated, stepping back towards the curb and raising a hand.  “Sherlock if you butt dialed me, I swear…” 

“Molly?”  His voice finally rang out clear on the other end but there was something…off about it.   

“Sherlock?  What’s wrong?”  A taxi pulled up to the curb and she opened the door to slide in.  Covering the mouthpiece, she told him her address.  On the other end of the phone, she could hear him clear his throat.   

“Nothing. Apologies for disturbing you this late.” 

From the quiet of the inside of the taxi, she could hear the noise in the background.   

“No worries, I wasn’t asleep.  Where are you?” 

“From the sounds when you first answered, I deduced you were out at the pub with friends.  Don’t worry about it, I shouldn’t have called, this was a mistake.  This is what I deserve.  I do. It's no less than what I deserve for listening to them.”  His voice trailed off and she had a feeling he wasn’t listening to her anymore.  Inside the warmth of the taxi, she suddenly felt cold.  

“Sherlock.”  Her voice was firm, insistent.  It was the voice she used when lecturing to students.  “Tell me where you are.” 

“Bart’s.”   

Without a second thought, she pulled the phone away from her ear, and covered the mouthpiece again. 

“Change of plan, can you take me to St. Bartholomew’s please?” 

She put the phone back to her ear in time to catch the end of his speech.  

“…you.  The universe is rarely that lazy.  But it’s no matter, I’ll stop bothering you.” 

“You aren’t a bother.” She interrupted, whatever light buzz she'd had before this phone call had disappeared the moment she heard the despondent and resigned tone in his voice.  A tone she'd only heard once before in another person. A tone she never wanted to hear again.  “You are never a bother.  So…”  She racked her brain trying to figure out what to say to keep him on the phone, because no matter how unseemly it sounded in the light of day, at this moment, she had a horrible fear that if this call disconnected, she’d never see him again.  “Why are you calling me at three in the morning?” 

The taxi pulled up to the front entrance of St. Bart’s.  She tried to calm her now shaking hands as she dug through her purse for her badge and fare for the taxi.  Leaning forward, she handed the fare to the driver.  Her hand slipped on the handle and she almost tripped on the curb when the door finally flew open.  Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she wobbled a bit as she ran through the cold evening towards the front doors. She had her badge on her so it was easy to swipe in. 

“It was random.”  He answered.  “I just picked a contact and you were the unlucky recipient.” 

“Why?” 

“Why what?”   

She strode through the empty entry area towards the elevators that would lead to the basement. “Why did you pick a random number to call at three in the morning?  Are you measuring how angry someone will be answering the phone that late or, in this case, early in the morning?  If so, I think personally I'm a crap person to be in your experiment as I'm up at all hours of the day and night and am usually on call," She fought to keep her voice level as she pressed the button to the lifts.  "Unless I'm the control.  Which would make sense as, again, I'm the one always up at all hours of the day or night and I tend not to be cranky when people call me at three in the morning and oh God I'm rambling." 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“And yet, here we are, talking at three in the morning.  Not that I mind talking to you at three in the morning.” 

“You're heading home, correct? Drink water when you get in. You’re off today so there’s no reason you should have to come into work in the morning.” 

She found it a bit comforting that he knew her schedule almost better than she did.  

“Why did you call at three in the morning.  Do you need results to something? If it was important, Sherlock, you know I'll come in later today for you.  There was no need to come in this late, Dr. Huntington is on shift tonight and I know you dislike him.” 

“Not in the lab.” 

His answer stopped her in her tracks, blood freezing in her veins.  If he wasn’t in her lab, then there was no other reason for him to be here. 

“Is someone hurt?” 

“No.” 

Slowly she turned away from the lift and headed towards the fire escape stairs.  

“Sherlock?” 

“Hmmm?” 

“Exactly where in Bart’s are you?” 

There was silence.  She could almost hear her heart pounding hard against her chest as she waited for him to say something.  Then, 

“I’ve taken up too much of your time.  Good night Molly Hooper.” 

“Sherlock don’t hang up!”  She shouted into her mobile, pushing the door to the stairs open and hurrying as quickly as she could up the stairs. She knew where he was.  Seven floors was still seven floors and she would feel it in the morning, but for the moment, her adrenalin was racing through her system, enough to give her that extra boost to at least jog the seven flights and talk on the mobile.  She had to keep him talking, keep him on the phone.  “You called me, now talk to me.” 

“Your voice is echoing and I can hear the sound of rubber against metal.  You're in the hospital.  You're supposed to be going home.  Don’t come up here Molly.”  He warned.  “I’ll lock the door.” 

“You lock the door Sherlock Holmes, and I’ll call emergency services on your arse!”  she snapped.  She gulped in a deep breath as she rounded flight number three and spoke again in a calmer voice.  “Talk to me Sherlock.  Don’t tell me you’re up there to think, just…please, talk to me.” 

Silence echoed back. 

“Please.”  She begged, both hating and not caring how she sounded so desperate.  If begging to Sherlock Holmes kept him on the phone and talking until she could reach him, then beg she would.  “Please, it’s just you and me.  You can trust me, I won't say anything.  Whatever you say, no matter how stupid you think it is, I won’t judge, I won’t criticize.  I’ll only listen.  Please Sherlock.” 

  

She could hear his breath catch as she rounded the fifth floor, her calf muscles beginning to protest the abuse.  That little catch in his breath held promise.   
“I’m a freak.”  She heard him finally say, his voice quiet and despondent.  Her heart slammed into her chest and her eyes welled in anger.  

“Don’t deny it, I know what I am, I’ve been called that and worse all my life. I know people hate me, ridicule me, don’t understand my…gifts.”  The last word was almost spat out.  “I could care less, people with their tiny lives, so boring and ineffectual.”  

He was heating up, his words coming out fast and more bitter.  “They’re all so slow and usually pathetic in their mundane little lives.  But…”  His voice caught as Molly forced herself towards the sixth floor.  “There are times…when I wish I could be that boring.”  

She rounded on the seventh floor, the door to the roof in her sight.  

“Sometimes when I hate this so-called gift, when I just want my brain to shut up." His voice was growing ragged. 

She could hear the sound of the gravel under his feet as he walked.  She reached the top of the stairs, gasping for breath before opening the door.  

“Sometimes, I have dark days, dark thoughts of just making my mind shut up for good.  I’ve thought about jumping, but as usual I can supply, at a moment’s notice, twenty-five different outcomes both good and bad, for me that is, should I one day decide to listen to what the voice whispers to me.” 

She turned the handle, gasping for breath and sobbing in relief when the handle turned easily.  Pushing open the door, she stepped out onto the roof.  It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dark but when they did, she let out a soft gasp. 

She could see Sherlock standing at the edge of the roof, his figure cloaked by shadow but even in the dark it was obvious as to where his mind was fixed.  

“Please don’t.”  she whispered.  

It wasn’t until he turned around that she realized the phone was still by her ear and he had heard her whispered plea.  In the darkness she saw him pocket his mobile and she did the same, too scared to take her eyes from him.  He was facing her, which was a good thing but he hadn’t moved from the edge of the building.  She approached him as slowly and carefully as one would approach a wounded animal.  All it would take was one step.  

He watched her, not moving, not saying a word until she reached the ledge and slowly held out her hand.  

“Please.”  Was all she said.  

They stood there, locked in a silent plea before he took a step towards her, away from the black nothingness. 

“Talk to me.”  She whispered.  “You were telling me about the voices.” 

His nose wrinkled. “Well obviously not real voices,” he sneered.  She didn’t flinch at his sudden vitriol.  

“They’re real to you.” 

He took a deep breath and then sighed heavily, turning his head to look back out at the darkness. He slid to the ground, leaning his back against the ledge with a sigh.   Coming around, she sat down next to him as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  He took one out and lit it, inhaling deeply before blowing out a stream of smoke.  

“Your dark days.”  she prodded gently.  “They’re worse than when you’re looking for a fix?” 

He snorted out a laugh.  “I haven’t needed a fix in at least a year.  Unless you’re counting these.”  He waved his hand.  “In which case, you’ll have to blame Mycroft.”  Taking another drag, he closed his eyes as he exhaled and started talking again.  

“These times..."  He paused as if trying to collect his thoughts.  "They don’t come as often.  Puberty was horrid.  But, they do still come.  There’s only so many times even I can be told you're a monster, a freak, a machine, heartless before I begin to wonder what everyone else is seeing that I’m not.” 

“Everyone is wrong.”  Molly blurted out, unable to keep quiet.  She clenched her hands into fists to hide the tremors.  She was furious; at John, at Mycroft, at Donovan, at anyone who’d made him feel less at any time.  “Everyone is wrong.”  She repeated firmly.  “You are not a monster, nor a machine or anything else they call you.” 

His gaze cut to her, a small lift to his lips as he took another drag.  “Not a week ago I insulted you horribly in my flat in front of people you respect.” 

“You apologized for that.”  She retorted.  “You don’t do well with large crowds and your flat was teeming with people. You coped the only way you know how, you lashed out.” 

“Molly, please don’t try to excuse my behavior.”  He countered.  “I was an ass. Rude, an utter bastard.  I didn’t give a toss about your feelings.” 

“Until you did.”  She huffed out a breath.  “Look, I’m not excusing your behavior.  Lord knows there are times when I just want to smack the hell out of you because of your annoying habit of opening your mouth before you think.  And yes, I was upset…really upset when it happened.  But after…”  She waved a hand helplessly, “In the morgue with your brother, I saw your face.  I know why you recognized her by not her face.” 

“You really don’t.” 

“Sherlock,” She turned her body to face him.  “You recognized her naked.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how you knew what she looked like naked.” 

“Again, you’d be wrong.” 

“Anyway,” She didn’t want to argue that point anymore.  Even bashed in, the woman that had laid on her slab was beautiful and she…wasn’t.  He would never look at her the way he looked at that woman and she was going to have to come to terms with that.  Just not right now.   “You don’t do well with other people.  You prefer one on one or a very small group of people around you to be comfortable.  Large crowds make you antsy and when you get antsy or uncomfortable you start spitting out deductions in an attempt to force people to leave you alone.” 

He raised an eyebrow, tossing the butt of the cigarette onto the floor of the roof and extinguishing it with the toe of his shoe.  

“Are you deducing me, Molly Hooper?” 

She shrugged.  “I’ve known you for five years Sherlock Holmes, you didn’t think that something would rub off after a while?” 

“I would’ve hoped so, but I never expected you to actually use it on me.” 

She grinned, swallowing a nervous giggle.  She leaned her head back to look up at the clear night sky, watching her breath as she exhaled.   

“Do you usually come up here to think?”  she asked.   

“No." 

She paused, wondering if she really wanted to ask the question put before her. 

"Then why are you up here?" 

"I came up here to jump.” 

She dropped her head back down to look at him.  His gaze was on the ground.   

“And now?” 

A half shrug.  “I haven’t decided yet.” 

The first thing she had to do was get him off this roof.  Once they were back on solid ground, she could figure out the next plan.   

“Can we…perhaps go get chips?”  she suggested.  “You can talk more about your dark days, the voices, why they’re louder this time, anything you want.  We don’t have to sit inside, we can walk if you’re worried about someone overhearing you.  It’s…it’s a little chilly up here.” 

“You’re more than welcome to leave Molly, nobody is forcing you to stay up here.” 

“I’m not leaving you up here alone.” 

“Nobody asked you to come up here.” 

She bit back the knee jerk response.  He was anxious and lashing out, she knew.  It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt her, but she’d weathered worse tantrums from him, this was nothing. 

“You called me.”  She countered.  “I don’t care if it was random. You called. I answered.  And, I’m sorry but I’m not leaving you alone up here.”  She tugged her coat tighter around her.  “So, if you’re staying up here, then what’s the next topic of conversation?” 

“Christ!”  Sherlock leapt to his feet, and Molly felt her heart leap into her throat.  He paced the roof, shaking his head.  “If your plan is to annoy me to not doing anything drastic, then it’s working.” 

“Good, glad I could help.”  Molly huffed.  “Because if you’re annoyed with me, then you’re focused on something else other than the voices in your head.  If it means I must be annoying until this mood passes, then you’re stuck with me Sherlock. Next time, call Lestrade or John if you want someone to simply call you an arse and leave you alone while you’re in a black mood.” 

He sat back down again, obviously unsure what to do around her. 

“I don’t care to effect anyone with my black mood.  It’ll pass and I’ll be back to my annoying cold-hearted bastard self.”  He hunched his shoulders.   

“You really don’t have to stay up here.” 

“Not leaving you Sherlock.” 

“Why chips?  What are chips going to do?” 

She shrugged.  “Chips are something one eats when they’re down.  They’re a feel-good food, kind of like ice cream.  I don’t know, it was an idea.  They may be bad for you but sod it,” she hesitated, glancing over at him. “You’re suicidal. I think you’re allowed chips.” 

He didn’t answer her either in the positive or the negative, only sat there silently for a moment before casting a quick side glance at her. 

“You’re going to freeze your arse off up here.”  

She finished buttoning her coat and shrugged as she pulled her mittens from her coat pocket.  “It isn’t that cold.” 

“You’re wearing a skirt and flats, your legs are exposed and it’s too cold out here to not be properly covered.” 

The side of her mouth quirked up at his comment.  “You noticed my legs?” 

“Bloody hell, Hooper.”  He snarled, jumping to his feet again.  She watched him pace wildly until finally he stopped in front of her.  “Get up.” 

Carefully, she stood, eyeing him worriedly.  “What are we doing?” 

“We’re going to bloody well get chips and then we’re slagging off to your flat to eat them so you can put some proper trousers on.” 

“Oh.  Ok.”  Hunching down into her coat, she stepped up beside him, moving her feet faster to keep up with his longer stride.  “And then we’ll talk?” 

“Why do we need to talk?  Can’t we just eat chips?” 

“We could.  You don’t have to talk if you don’t want. I just want you to know I’m willing to listen.  Without judgement.” 

“Yes, you’ve said.”  He held the door to the roof access for her and she gave him a look before she entered.  He rolled his eyes.  

“I am right behind you.” 

She stepped into the warmth of the stairwell, well, warmer than it was outside. And, true to his word, he followed her, the door slamming shut behind him, the sound bouncing off the walls like an echo chamber.  

They took the seven flights in near silence, not talking until they reached the ground floor and Molly pushed the door open.  

“There’s a chippy about two blocks from here,” She said as the door shut behind him and they walked into the empty entryway of the hospital.  “We could get some there and maybe take a taxi back to my flat?" 

He stepped around her and towards the entrance, letting the automatic doors swing open for him.  Molly grinned.  

“You just like dramatic entrances, don’t you?” 

He returned her grin with one of his own.  Not one of his practiced grins, reserved for clients and people he was trying to manipulate, usually her, but an actual grin as if they were sharing a secret.  She wondered if he had dramatic music playing in his mind as he pushed open double doors, or when he flipped up the collar of his coat just so, or pulled his scarf off in that distractingly charming way he did. 

“Possibly.” 

The cold wind slapped at her face as she walked out into the night again, leaving her to wonder why it wasn’t this windy when she was on the roof. 

They walked down the street, heading towards the closest chip shop.     
“Why are you out at, now, almost four in the morning, Molly Hooper?  Your girls night out go on longer than you expected?” 

“It could’ve been a date.”  She countered.  

“Hmmm, no.  You’d be wearing heels had it been a date and hopefully not that skirt.  You closed down a pub. Had it been a date, two things would’ve happened; either it went bad and you would’ve opted out earlier and already been home possibly asleep when I phoned, or it would’ve gone very well and you would have moved to the shagging portion of the evening and, again, not been available when I phoned.  As you answered my call within five rings, you closed the pub with friends and were already outside trying to pull your mobile from your coat pocket when you heard it ring.” 

She couldn’t even argue with his logic because it was true.  But, she probably blushed a bit after he’d mentioned her and shagging in the same sentence.  Luckily, she could blame the blush for it just being cold.  

“I was out with friends,” she confirmed for him as they walked.  “An old Uni friend was in town and called up a group of us to get together while she was here.  I didn’t even realize how late it was until the keep called last order.”  She huddled down into her coat, the alcohol was wearing off and she was feeling the cold whip around her legs. It was colder this morning than it was last night when she stepped out.   

“Talk to me Sherlock.”   She suggested, wanting to break the silence so he didn’t fall too far into his own thoughts again. 

His shoulders hunched further into his coat.  

"About what?" 

 “Tell me about your London.  I've only known the city as a bustling metropolis, people all over as I go to and from work on the daily.  Your London seems much darker and richer.  I would like to hear about it.” 

 

He talked.  They walked down the final street towards the small building at the end of the block as he told her about the underground, his Homeless Network, and the back streets people walked past every day without seeing. 

He held the door to the chip shop open for her and the heat hit her as she stepped in, sending prickles to her now frozen legs.  She stood to the side while he ordered and talked to the man behind the counter who appeared to know him.  He pulled out his phone and texted someone quickly, sliding his mobile back into his pocket as the man at the counter handed him a brown bag.  With a nod to the man, he gestured towards the door.   

“We didn’t pay, Sherlock.” 

“On the house.  Helped him with a problem regarding his elderly mother and a pastor who was swindling money from her.” 

She smiled, she couldn’t help it.  “You really are amazing, you know that?  I mean, all of these people you know, all of these people you help and never take credit.” 

He brushed off her comment as he held the door for her again.  “It’s a mutual exchange of services. I help them, and they help me.” 

“You get free chips because you helped that man with his mother.  You have eyes and ears all over London by people half of London don’t ever see.”  She blinked as she spotted the taxi idling in front of the shop.  “And you can magically will taxis to appear.  What I wouldn’t give for that trick.” 

He gave her a tight smile as he opened the door.  The man turned to smile at them as they climbed in.   

“Morning Sherlock, Where to?” 

“Wilfred.”  Sherlock acknowledged before turning to Molly. “Your address?” 

“Oh, Brixton?” 

“On our way Miss,” The taxi smoothly pulled away from the curb and drove down the street.  The smell of fresh chips made Molly’s stomach grumble in reminder that she hadn’t eaten anything in a while.  Sherlock opened the bag and offered it to her.   She pulled out a couple and bit into them, almost moaning in delight.   

“I didn’t know I was so hungry.”  She said around the chip.  He shoved a few into his mouth, nodding.   

“You were right,” he said after he swallowed.  “Chips were a good idea.” 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The taxi pulled up to her flat and Sherlock paid the man, nodding his thanks as she climbed out and dug through her purse for her keys.   

“Oh, I have a cat,” she said as an afterthought as she unlocked the door leading to the hallway.  “I hope you aren’t allergic.” 

“Whatever for?’  he asked, following her.   

“Whatever for, what?”  she asked, leading him towards the door to her flat.  She unlocked it and opened the door, turning on the light before dropping her keys onto the table by the door.  Sherlock followed her in, shutting the door behind him.  From the kitchen, came a loud meowing followed by a tabby.  It kept meowing as it wound around Molly’s feet.   

“Hello Toby,” she cooed, bending down to scoop up the cat.  “I was out later than I expected, I know.  I missed you.” 

“That is a ridiculous cat.”  Sherlock announced, following her towards the kitchen.  Molly cooed and kissed the cat before putting him onto one of the chairs by the table.   

“He is not ridiculous.”  She insisted.  “Toby is a dear.” 

Toby hopped onto the table, staring first at Sherlock before nosing towards the bag.  Sherlock pulled the bag towards him, glaring at the cat.   

“Molly, your ridiculous cat is on the table eyeing the chips.” 

“Toby, no.”  She scooped the cat off the table, ignoring his indignant yowl, and put him on the floor.  He stopped to lick his paws before the tail went up and he sauntered off towards the living room and better accommodations. 

“I have wine or I can put the kettle on.” 

“Tea is fine, thank you.” 

She put the kettle on, giving her time to rummage through her scattered thoughts.  She realized she was completely sober now, however she had also noticed that she'd been with Sherlock Holmes almost two hours without stuttering around him once.  She must have counted on the panic and brief feeling of terror for her change in attitude around the detective. She wasn't sure how long this new, non-stuttering version of her would last but she hoped at least until after they had finished their talk. 

  

 Sherlock shoved his hand into the bag and pulled out a couple of chips, surreptitiously watching Molly move around the kitchen from the corner of his eye.  He realized that his mind had been blissfully silent for a while, ever since Molly had answered her phone, come to think of it.  He popped a couple into his mouth resolutely refusing to acknowledge, that one voice that had begged him to call someone had sounded suspiciously like the pathologist. She pulled two plates from the counter and he focused back on the bag as she placed the plates on the table next to him.  He split the chips and pushed one of the plates towards her as she took a seat across from him.   

“You were telling me about your London,” she urged.   

“There isn’t much else to tell."  He picked at the chips for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.  "It’s dark and dirty and dangerous. I walk her streets when I can’t sleep, she gives me life and something to do. She feeds me, calms me with her sounds, provides me with a purpose.”  He shoved a few more chips into his mouth as the kettle began to boil and Molly stood up to see to it.  He wasn’t sure why he was telling her any of this.  He never opened up to anyone, it was one of the reasons John had called him an automaton earlier.  But for right now, at this time when most of the city was sleeping and it was quieter, in this space, he felt like he really could tell Molly anything and she wouldn’t judge him.  This wouldn’t become a habit, he didn’t do sentiment of any kind, but for tonight… 

_She’ll betray you Sherl,_ the first voice, the one who had always been there, was back.  _They all betray you in the end, you know they do.  Nobody loves you, not truly.  You’re an object to be pitied and used._  

“Shut up,” he muttered.   

“Sorry?”  A mug was placed in front of him and he took it gratefully, glad to have something else to focus on other than the thoughts that were back.  

“Nothing.” 

She retook her seat across from him, her own mug sitting on the table. He went back to eating chips, focusing on the plate instead of her.  

Molly watched him in silence for a moment, his shoulders hunched under his coat, eyes focused on the plate.  She was hesitant to push, but she wanted him to know that she was there for him.   

“Why the roof?” 

His gaze flicked up to her, his head lifting a moment after.   

“Pardon?” 

“The roof?  Why?  Why not a gun, or poison?  Stepping off onto the tracks of the Underground.” 

He was silent for a moment before he shrugged, wiping his fingers on a towel on the table.     
"I don’t know.  I didn’t think about it, I just ended up there.” 

“It’s where the voice told you to go.”  She surmised.  Another shrug.  She bit her bottom lip, thinking.  It was obvious he wasn’t comfortable with this line of questioning, that he probably wouldn’t answer if she pressed right now, possibly even leave if she pressed too hard.  She took a drink of her tea, thinking.   

“If you were to kill everyone, how would you do it?”   

It was clear from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t expecting the sudden change of conversation.  

“How would I…”   

“Yes, how would you kill them?”  She gave him a small half smile.  “Somedays, when people piss me off to the point that I just want to scream, I imagine how I would kill them.” She shook her head.  “I know it’s morbid but it’s a sort of stress relief.” 

“Who are you killing?”  He pushed the now empty plate to the side and leaned his elbows on the table, mug in his hand.  She grinned.   

“Well, this morning, I killed Anderson.” 

The grin on Sherlock’s face almost caused her brain to shutter to a stop.   

“How?”   

“Ricin.  Inside his gloves.  I know for a fact that Anderson never washes his hands after peeling off his gloves, expecting the gloves to completely cover his skin, so the ricin covering his hands gets into his eyes, his mouth, all over any food he eats.”  She enjoyed the disgusted look on his face at Anderson’s hygiene habits.  “It would take about a week.  I’m patient.” 

He blinked.  And then, blinked again.  “You are truly diabolical, Molly Hooper?”   

She shrugged in acceptance.  “I would never do it, you understand.” 

“I should’ve known you’d be a poisoner.”  He smiled around his words as if impressed.  

 She merely smiled and sipped at her tea. 

“Who else?” 

“Suggestions?” 

He grinned.  “Lestrade.” 

She gave another shrug and took another drink.  “Straight shot to the heart.  Make sure it’s fatal and then make it look like a botched arrest.” 

“I would find out the truth.” 

“I’d dare you to try.  I’m a pathologist.  I work with dead bodies every day.  I know at least fifty ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident or a tragic mistake.” 

He looked suitably impressed.  

“John.” 

Molly blinked.  

“Um…I still don’t know him all that well and he’s your friend.” 

“You think I haven’t plotted my acquaintances deaths?” 

“Really?  Do I want to know how you’d kill me?” 

He waved it off with the hand not holding his mug.  “Later.  John.” 

“Well,” She put down her mug.  ‘He’s kind of a…ladies’ man.  I’ve heard the rumors.  So, stabbing to the femoral artery in the thigh.  He bleeds out within four minutes and it looks like an accident.  I mean, who would kill someone by slicing their femoral artery.  Your carotid artery, yes, but the femoral?  Tragic accident.” 

“You really are diabolical.” 

“Okay.  How would you do…er…kill me?” 

He finished his tea before setting the cup down.  “Suffocation.  And then snap your neck.  You are a known klutz.  It wouldn’t take a leap of faith to think that you merely tripped down the stairs.”  He grinned.  “Tragic accident.” 

She nodded slowly.  “I’ll have to be more careful around stairs, won’t I?” 

He slowly leaned forward, his eyes focused on her.  “Do me.” 

Her eyes widened, a blush forming on her cheeks.  “I..I…sorry?” 

“How would you kill me?” 

She swallowed, her eyes falling to her mug, staring at the remains at the bottom of the cup and cursing that her stutter had returned.  “I h…haven’t…that is to say…I never…I haven’t thought about it.” 

“Oh come on.”  He said, his voice low.  “I annoy everyone.  You’d hardly be the first nor the last person to fantasize about my death.  I’m sure Donovan would love to put a bullet in me on odd days.” 

She shook her head.  “I wouldn’t.  Do I want to slap you sometimes?  On the regular.  But I’ve never thought about killing you, the world…”  she swallowed again.  “The world would be bereft.” 

He fell silent.  She stood up, taking her mug with her.  “Want another cuppa?”  She picked up his mug without his answer and walked to the stove to turn on the kettle. She needed to move, to do something. The conversation had gotten too intimate, much too fast and she felt as if she were floundering. 

Bracing her hands against the counter, she took quiet deep breaths, not wanting to alert him that their conversation unnerved her. 

His voice broke the silence.  

“Would you be upset if you knew I’ve thought about it?” 

She turned around, leaning against the counter. 

“Of course you’ve thought about it.  I wouldn’t have found you on the roof of Bart’s today had you not thought about it.”  She let out a sigh.  “I don’t begrudge you. Nor hate you; depression is a serious illness.” 

“I’m not depressed.” 

“Studies show that depression is one of the leading causes of suicidal ideation.  You might have it from the substance abuse problems, but you’ve been clean for a couple of years now.  I hardly think you’re one for an honor killing.  You haven’t besmirched your honor.” 

“Does it really matter why?” 

“No.”  She shook her head.  “It doesn’t.” 

The kettle boiled and she poured water into both mugs, letting the tea sit for a moment as she turned back around to look at Sherlock.  

“There are…these echoes…In my mind,” he started.  “My mind palace has so many different places where I can store information, memories, situations.  Some I delete in order to make room for more.  But in these rooms are…echoes.  Voices that whisper to me sometimes.” 

Molly brought the mugs to the table and placed his down in front of him before retaking her seat.  “Like ghosts?” 

“Were I to believe in ghosts, possibly. I’m not always sure who some of these voices are, they don’t have form."  His brows furrowed in lost thought.  "There's one voice in particular, that is worse than the others.  She comes when I am at my lowest; telling me that I am an aberration, a freak, an abhorrence.” 

She watched him, his head down, hand curled around the mug as he spoke.   “Sometimes it is easy to ignore them, ignore her, other times…” 

“Like tonight.”  She whispered.  He nodded.  

“Like tonight.” 

“You aren’t an abhorrence.”  She tried to keep her tone gentle, to not startle him or show any emotions.  Emotion would be the quickest way to scare him and send him running.  “Nor are you a freak, Donovan can go hang.” 

She saw his lips curl up.  

“Sherlock, you are a genius.  You’re a brilliant man, granted with appalling social skills, but to be fair, your brother has horrid social skills also. He’s just in a position where cold contempt is the norm for everyone he speaks to.” 

She wrapped her suddenly cold fingers around the warm mug as she continued. “It is a clear case of jealousy in everyone when it comes to your intellect; hell, there are times I’m jealous of your brain, it would make my job easier by half somedays if I could come up with a solution as easily as you do.  You must think us all such idiots sometimes.” 

“Not all of them.” 

She raised her gaze to him, studying his still lowered head.  “My point is you can’t be everything.  You can’t be this…this beautifully brilliant man with this staggering intellect and be the paragon of cordiality and manners.  Something has to give and in your case, it’s manners.  But you’re learning.” 

She picked up and blew on her tea before taking a tentative sip, wincing as the liquid burnt her mouth. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, drinking their tea as outside the kitchen window the sky lightened with the coming sunrise. 

“I’m…glad it was your number I chose.” 

Molly smiled.  “Me too.”  

She covered her mouth as a yawn burst forth from her and Sherlock glanced up at her before glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall.  

“It’s late, or rather early and you’re tired.  I should go.” 

“No!”  She winced at her rushed words as he raised an eyebrow at her answer.  “I mean, aren’t you tired?  Where are you going to go?” 

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.  “A little.  I was going to walk around a bit more until I’m too exhausted to think.” He shrugged. “It happens sometimes.” 

“Wha…I have a guest room.”  She mentally kicked herself at speaking before thinking.  All she knew was she didn’t want him to leave.  She was worried he wasn’t quite out of his dark mood yet; and to be honest, she was enjoying this quiet time with an unguarded Sherlock.  “You could use it, take a nap before you head back to Baker Street?” 

“I won’t impugn on your hospitality.” 

“Impugn away. I mean…you are always welcome here. If you ever need a place to escape, to think, to just…hide out and sleep... my flat is always open to you.” 

He smirked knowingly as he lifted the mug to his lips.  “You might regret that offer, Molly Hooper.” 

She smiled.  “I don’t think so.” 

He drained his mug and stood up.  “Then I thank you for your kind offer.  Do you mind if I have a bath?” 

“Not at all,” She forcefully pushed the image of a naked Sherlock Holmes in her tub from her mind.  “My flat is open to you.” 

He crossed the floor to put the mug in the sink and then nodded towards her.  “Thank you.” 

She watched him walk out of the kitchen, wondering at the surrealness of this evening and feeling thankful that she was off today. 

  

  

                                                                                                       

 

* * *

 

She heard the door to her bedroom opening hours later, stuck in that middle space between awake and asleep, half wondering if it was a dream.  

“Toby, g’way,” she muttered, her eyes refusing to open.  She felt dry lips press against her temple and she struggled to open her eyes and reach full wakefulness.  When she finally sat up, her flat was empty.  Her gaze scanned the empty room with the now open bedroom door before she lay back down and immediately fell back asleep. 

 

  

She woke around noon, finally getting up and padding around a demanding tabby loudly informing her that he needed lunch.  She padded into the kitchen to make something to eat and caught sight of the two empty mugs in the sink.  A smile came to her lips as she remembered the night or rather the early morning before. 

The sound of her phone ringing from the bedroom caught her attention as she was warming up a scone.  Hurrying to her bedroom, she took her phone from her charger, glancing at the unknown number on the display before swiping accept. 

“Hello?” 

“Doctor Hooper,” the familiar stern voice on the other end began.  “I wish to extend my appreciation to you for keeping an eye on Sherlock last night.” 

She frowned at the phone.  “Mr. Holmes?”  Why was Sherlock’s brother calling her and more importantly, how had he gotten her number? 

“Sadly, I did not anticipate last night, given he’d already had a Danger Night a week ago, I honestly didn’t expect another to appear so soon.” 

Molly walked back into the kitchen to get her breakfast.  “Mr. Holmes, with all due respect, what are you talking about?” 

She heard the sigh over the phone, as if it were tedious talking to her.  “There are times when Sherlock is at his most…suggestable.  Those nights usually involve him partaking in illegal narcotics.  As you are aware of his history of addiction, you can well understand that I would like to avoid these particular nights.  I have no wish to see my brother strung out in a gutter again.” 

Molly leaned against the island counter, picking at her scone.  “I understand.” 

“I did not expect him to seek you out.” 

“He didn’t seek me out. Mine happened to be the number on the speed dial he pressed and I found him.  But he wasn’t trying to use, Mr. Holmes.” 

“I hardly think, Doctor Hooper, that you-“ 

“He wasn’t trying to use, Mr. Holmes.”  She repeated a bit more firmly.  “Drugs were the last thing on his mind this morning.  Perhaps, you need to talk to your brother.” 

“Yes well,” She could hear the uncomfortableness in his tone as if talking to his younger brother was a fate he’d rather avoid if at all necessary.  “If this happens again, if you would be so kind as to direct him back to Baker Street where Doctor Watson and Mrs. Hudson could keep an eye on him?” 

She would be doing no such thing, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.  Let him have his secrets.  Her discussions with Sherlock as well as her offer would be hers. 

“Of course, Mr. Holmes.  Have a nice morning.” 

She took a small bit of pleasure in hanging up before he could.  She was about to put her mobile on the counter when she caught sight of a text message.  She swiped it. 

**Thank you for last night.  SH**  

She smiled and typed out a reply. 

**My pleasure.  My offer still stands.  Mx**  

 

 

 

**Epilogue:**

  

“You’re wrong, you know.” 

The voice cut through the darkened lab, causing Molly to jump, her heart pounding against her chest at the sudden fright.  She whirled around to see Sherlock stepping out of the shadows.  

Honestly, he was the last person she ever expected to see tonight.  He’d just left hours before.  

“You do count.  You have always counted.” 

“What’s wrong?”  she asked.  He walked towards her slowly, his face appearing out of the shadows.  He was paler than normal, his dark hair wild against his heavy coat.  His eyes were a dark blue, the circles under them like bruises.  Her own eyes widened as she took in the listlessness, how carefully he walked towards her.  He looked like a man whose entire life had fallen down around him and was now desperately looking for one last safe route to escape. 

“Molly, I think I’m going to die.” 

Her heart leapt into her throat again, her own face going pale.  Was it another danger night, as Mycroft had called them?     
“What do you need?”  She asked, attempting to keep her voice still.  

Another step.  “If I wasn’t everything that you thought I was, everything that I thought I was, would you still be willing to help me?” 

Her mouth tightened, eyes wide as she looked up at him.  She’d told him once that she would always be there should he need her and she meant it.  Especially if he was having one of his dark nights. 

“What do you need?”  she repeated firmly. 

His final step took him within touching distance of her.  He looked down, his eyes as open as she’d seen them since that night months ago. 

“You.”  He answered, his voice soft.  She blinked.  

“Tell me what to do.” 

“I might have to jump this time.” 

Her lip trembled, her eyes wide.  

“Sherlock,” She tried for more words but her throat had tightened.  

“I don’t want to, Molly Hooper, but things might be out of my hands.  Moriarty,” He offered by way of explanation.  “I will more than likely have to fake my death.” 

Her breath whooshed out of her.  He wanted to live, was actually fighting to live, but this madness was threatening to drive him away from his life. 

“Is there any other way?” 

“I’ve calculated every possible outcome and this is one of them.  Will you help me?” 

“Of course.”  She answered.  “Whatever you need.” 

“Thank you, Molly.  My brother is working with us to plan everything out.” 

Her eyes narrowed slightly.  “You remember when we spoke about how we would kill people?” 

He nodded.  

“It wouldn’t be an accident.  I’d be more than happy to just put a bullet in his brain.”  

He opened the door to the lab and ushered her out, leading her towards the back entrance of the basement where Mycroft had a car waiting for them.  

“Please don’t,” he said.  “You’re Molly Hooper, you give everyone second and third chances.  If you won’t give him a chance, what hope is there for a man like me?” 

She whirled around on him before he had a chance to open the door.  

“You are nothing like him Sherlock.  I don’t care what you think, what the voice or voices say if they do indeed tell you that, you listen to me. You are nothing like Jim Moriarity.  Do you understand me?” 

They stared at each other for a moment and then he nodded.  

“I understand.” 

With that, he pushed the door open and he and Molly walked towards the dark car to discuss how Sherlock Holmes would die.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this is what you were looking for. A special thank you to Starlight-Falls for beta reading this.


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